


Forced to Beg + Dirty Secret

by Agib, starsandsupernovae



Series: Whumptober 2020 [12]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Blindfolds, But I always TW just in case, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Flashbacks, Gen, Graphic Description, Hurt Spencer Reid, Implied/Referenced Suicidal Thoughts, Kidnapping, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Spencer Reid Needs a Hug, Spencer Reid Whump, Strangulation, Suffering, Torture, Violence, Whump, but not in a fun way, very briefly though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27056113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agib/pseuds/Agib, https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandsupernovae/pseuds/starsandsupernovae
Summary: Distantly, Spencer knows the past tense means this man doesn’t expect to keep him alive forever. But in this moment, following something so horrific and traumatising as this, a torture nothing like he could ever imagine… Spencer doesn’t know if he minds having the knowledge that he won’t be kept alive in this man’s care for much longer.
Relationships: (?) - Relationship, Derek Morgan & Spencer Reid, Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid, Probably... - Relationship, Spencer Reid & The BAU Team, maybe?? - Relationship
Series: Whumptober 2020 [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1945771
Comments: 13
Kudos: 113
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Forced to Beg + Dirty Secret

**Author's Note:**

> <3 for my Beta, Rose, and her Ao3: [Dilaudiddreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilaudiddreams/pseuds/dilaudiddreams/works)  
> And her gorgeous tumblr: [@m0rcia](https://m0rcia.tumblr.com/)
> 
> <3 for co-writer, Dani, her Ao3 is: [Starsandsupernovae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandsupernovae)  
> And her gorgeous tumblr: [@reid-and-writing](https://reid-and-writing.tumblr.com/)

Spencer wakes slowly, groggily.

  
  


The first thing he notices is the darkness, and then the weight around his eyes and head.

  
  


He’s been blindfolded.

  
  


Panic had already settled prior to the blindfold, but the weight of it - both physically and emotionally, considering his past - sends him over the edge. 

  
  


His breathing picks up, and he abandons the idea of faking unconsciousness to buy himself more time if he’s currently being watched. He twitches, hands reaching upward to pick at the edges of the knot currently caught at the back of his head, pulling at his hair. 

  
  


“Get your hands away from that or you’ll regret it,” a deep voice growls in warning. “Took you long enough to wake,” the someone - a man, likely in his late twenties to early forties - says. 

  
  


Spencer tenses and slowly lowers his hands. 

The voice sounds too close to be worth ignoring. He has no time to get the horrid blindfold off. 

  
  


He still hears their laughter in his nightmares. His first kiss, ruined and tainted by the vile need to destroy what little of his confidence had existed back then. 

  
  


He hears keys from close ahead of him, and he braces himself. 

  
  


He’s trained with Morgan enough to know what to do. 

  
  


Ever since the boy with the gun to his head had happened, Derek had been teaching him basic self defence. Since Hankel, he stepped it up. They practiced defence with restraints, sensory deprivation, dirty fighting - teeth and nails and head butting as a last resort - and so much more. 

  
  


So, when the man reaches out and grasps his shoulder, he reels forward with his hands clasped into one fist, slamming into someone stocky and heavy. 

  
  


He hears a grunt and throws his hands upward to scramble at the knot. 

  
  


He’s only just figured out the type of knot - a messy double overhand, done twice to make four separate sections he would have to untie before yanking the damned cloth from his face - when something crashes into his cheek. 

  
  


The force of the blow sends him scattered and unrighted. He can’t tell which way is up when he pounds into the concrete beneath him with his own groan of pain. 

  
  


The soreness thuds through his jaw, achy and sharp. 

  
  


“Wanna try that again?” The man hisses. “I can guarantee it’ll be a lot worse if you do.”

He speaks as if Spencer is smart. As if he won’t disregard the warning entirely in favour of appeasing the small voice of conscience in the back of his head that sounds an awful lot like Derek. 

  
  


Spencer forces himself to remain still until he can gather his bearings and work out which direction the man came from in order to know for sure there are no obstacles.

  
  


His plan is to roll to the side, get to his feet and run, hands outward to follow the wall to the entrance, which must not have a door, seeing as the echo in the room is massive. He’ll get around any corner, undo his blindfold and trip the man when he comes sailing around said corner. 

  
  


He doesn’t see anything wrong with that. _Difficult,_ yes, but _wrong_ , no. 

  
  


The man approaches from the right, both hands clasping against Spencer’s shoulders to steady him as the jangle of keys comes closer. 

  
  


He ducks his chin, pulls his shoulders forward and rolls. 

  
  


He makes it about halfway before something tightens around his throat and throttles him in the opposite direction. 

  
  


He chokes, gagging on the force of the weight he’s now aware of against his throat. 

  
  


“ _Agh_ ,” he coughs. The man is laughing quietly from beside him, hands moving downward to grip his shoulders once more. 

  
  


He leans in, hot breath fanning out across Spencer’s cheek. 

  
  


“What did I tell you?” The man asks. 

  
  


The sound of a chain makes Spencer think he’s been collared to the wall. _God_ , he hopes against the reasonable mindset inside him that it wasn’t a dog collar. There was no way he was living it down if the team found him shackled up like an animal. Derek wouldn’t exactly have a field day, but Spencer would encourage him to, merely to take the fear away from an experience and bury it with banter as normal. Like he wasn’t fearing for his life right now.

  
  


The hands on his shoulders roll him onto his stomach, his chin pressing roughly into the concrete beneath them both. 

  
  


The man straddles his legs, gripping both wrists and toying around for a moment before the horribly familiar bite of zip ties cuts into his wrists. It reminds him of the LDSK case, when himself and Hotch had been held at gunpoint. 

  
  


He prayed Hotch was controlling the team’s worry enough for them to find him soon. 

  
  


The man is heavy, almost twice as heavy as Derek - which Spencer only knows from training, as much as he’d like to know from other experiences - and he feels like he’s suffocating slightly. He’s pressed between the man and the concrete, his ribs digging into the floor painfully. 

  
  


“Alright. Listen up.” A hand clasps itself into his curls, yanking his chin backward and up. “You wanna keep playing cutesy games and messin’ around, go for it.”

  
  


Spencer thinks about how bad breath was given a name in the nineteen-twenties as a marketing scheme to scare people into using listerine. _Halitosis._ It’s what his kidnapper must have. The way he smells as he talks is abhorrent. 

  
  


“...But I swear to you, you’re gonna _wish_ you hadn’t if you keep it up.” The hand digs tighter into his hair, forcing his neck to arch upward. “You do what I say and nothing more. Got it?”

  
  


He nods, not sure if he can bother forcing out words with his neck pulled taught and the collar still digging in. His cheek grates against the floor.

  
  


“Good.” The man removes his weight, and Spencer tries not to gasp when he can release the strain on his neck. 

  
  


He waits patiently as the man unlocks the thing around his neck. It doesn’t seem to be a dog collar. The weight stays on, but the tautness of the chain he was restrained with falls away. 

  
  


The collar stays on. The chain does not. 

  
  


He’s never been restrained by his neck before, so this is a first. He thinks perhaps his bar is a little low, but then again, working in the FBI did that.

  
  


He wonders when he went missing, and _how._ The last thing he remembers is going to a bookstore after work, and then _nothing_. He’s assuming he was blitzed. The pain radiating around the inside of his skull must be from force and not the lingering effect of drugs, which he’s sadly pleased about.

  
  


A blitz attack makes sense with how physically confident his kidnapper seems, and he has the right to be; he had felt _heavy_.

  
  


Spencer is rolled onto his back, his tied wrists pinning beneath his own body and the ground. He exhales on an _‘oof’_ when the man straddles him again, leaning all his weight against his lower stomach and waist.

  
  


“Alright, FBI boy,” the man hums, ignoring the way the moniker makes Spencer shiver. “You’re doing what I say, and now you’re going to do something that’ll make me _real_ happy.”

  
  


Warm fists encircle his throat before he has a chance to tell the man to get fucked like Derek taught him - _it puts them off their game,_ he’d explained, _makes them mad. They’ll make mistakes_ \- and he chokes, wriggling around beneath the man in an attempt to shake them away.

  
  


“Shh, shh,” the man hushes his gagging as the hands throttle him harder. “You’re going to beg for me,” he orders. “Beg real good for me.”

“Whu - ug - ugh - what?!” He splutters.

  
  


“ **_Beg_ ** _!_ Beg for your life, beg for me!” The man roars. His hands squeeze tighter until blood rushes through Spencer’s ears, pumping rapidly like the sounds of a sea shore. “Go on! Beg pretty for me,” he breathes.

  
  


There’s excitement in his voice, and wonderment. Spencer has heard this before, in interviews with their unsubs. It’s a psychopathic trait, finding pleasure in the suffering of others to the point where you have to inflict the pain yourself in order to get the high.

  
  


He throws his head to both sides desperately, trying to roll away from the man’s hold because he can’t. _Breathe_.

  
  


His eyes water from the man’s grip, and he heaves as his body tries to get in any oxygen.

  
  


At this point, he’s willing to sacrifice what little dignity he has left to get this man’s hands away from his throat.

  
  


“S - stoh - stop!” He chokes out. He flails his legs about, his lungs screaming in protest.

  
  


“Do not tell me to stop!” The man yells, wringing him by the neck until his head is shaking back and forth. “You **_BEG_ **!”

  
  


Spencer flinches, his hands scrabbling at the floor.

  
  


“Pl - please - please -” He gasps.

  
  


The man loosens his fingers, his hand letting Spencer have more give. “D - don’t, n - not again,” he says hoarsely, his throat already wrecked.

  
  


There’s a pleased grumble from above him, and once again Spencer finds himself back on the dorm room bed, kissing someone for the first time and hearing a cut-off, hushed laughter from all around him.

  
  


“God, so perfect,” the man grunts. “Your neck is gorgeous, such a thin, tiny -”

  
  


Spencer makes a noise of panic when he feels the hands tightening again, he arches his back, attempting to yank his hands apart but all it really does is force the plastic to dig further into his wrists, an added pain blooming and shooting up his arms as his lungs scream out for air.

Spencer tries to move, tries to roll and squirm away, but the man's weight keeps him pinned down against the hard floor, his hands around his throat in an iron grip.

  
  


“Again,” he orders.

  
  


“Ple...ase - please.”

  
  


The man tightens his hands again, until his nails are digging into the sides of his neck and breaking skin.

  
  


“You don’t mean it!” He yells. Spittle specks across his face, making him cringe beneath all the struggling he’s doing. “Beg me like you know I’m going to kill you,” the man breathes out harshly, his own voice strained from the force of his grip.

  
  


There’s a small part of Spencer that knows some of the strain is coming from the man’s pleasure, which terrifies him more than the thought of death. It meant the team wouldn’t get a ransom call or any clues of his whereabouts. This was no game, this was personal enjoyment. He could be here for days, weeks, months even.

  
  


The team was entirely on their own.

  
  


His face burns with shame, but he knows he has to play into it if he wants to survive for longer than an hour.

  
  


“Do - ough - _don’t_! Don’t - don’t kill me,” he rasps.

  
  


“Say please,” the man mumbles.

  
  


“...’lease?” Spencer manages.

  
  


The man growls, squeezing far tighter until Spencer can feel his eyes bulging unbearably.

  
  


“Try harder!” He screams, slamming Spencer’s head into the concrete below them both. “You don’t mean it!”

  
  


“P - please!” Spencer gasps out, he can feel tears, soaking through the blindfold and down his cheeks and then a horrifyingly gentle touch as at last the man relents slightly, brushing one away.

  
  


“Good boy.” The man croons, a smile in his tone. “That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

  
  


A flare of anger bubbles up beneath Spencer’s terror. Psychologically he understood why this man was doing what he was, but he couldn’t wrap his head around why he had to do it like _this_. Like a freak. A sadistic asshole.

  
  


“Keep begging,” he says. Something icy in his tone makes Spencer feel _wrong_. He’s encouraging this. Derek would never, or Emily, or Hotch.

  
  


Hotch never flinched. With Dowd, with guns to his head, he was like a brick wall. Spencer wishes he could do anything in the same vein. Instead he’s shaking and his face is wet with tears, his arms pinned and throat probably reddening from the abuse.

  
  


But Spencer isn’t Hotch. And when the man moves his hands back to his throat, not pushing yet but a clear threat, Spencer is very, noticeably afraid. Every nerve in his body vibrates with anticipation and the resultant terror.

  
  


“I won’t tell you again, boy. Beg for me.”

  
  


“Ah - ack - Stop! Please - _please_!” His words fall out between ragged gasps and broken sobs, just as he suspects the man likes.

  
  


“So pretty,” he groans. Again, his words stain Spencer, leave behind a filthy feeling.

  
  


Spencer jerks, his chest convulsing with the inability to suck in air.

  
  


Behind the darkness of the cloth blindfold, stars and lights begin to burst, leaving him dizzy and ill. He dissolves into confusion, unaware of the taught, numb pressure against his throat, only aware of the feeling of his nails digging into the cracks of cement beneath his body.

  
  


He can hear his captor as though from far away, laughing at him, or perhaps the laughter is from farther still, present and past blurring together. He’s being choked on the concrete floor and 

they’re all laughing at him, and - no, he’s in the dorm room and he’s being hurt while someone whispers sadistically in his ear and - he’s nowhere, there’s nothing. 

  
  


——

  
  


Spencer wakes from the pain. It’s excruciating. He feels like he’s swallowed hot coals or drank lighter fluid. 

  
  


His head pounds rhythms and his throat screams in protest when he swallows to try and bring some salvia to ease the ache.

He moves slowly, realizing he’s still bound, attached to the wall by a chain like a misbehaved animal. He waits silently a moment, trying to hear if he’s alone in the room before slowly lifting his hands, trying to reach the knots of the blindfold. 

  
  


The knots tug at his hair when he fiddles with them, and he winces in discomfort as he scrambles with the lazy ties.

  
  


As he does, he listens and probes his environment as much as he can with no sight and limited reach.

  
  


The floor is concrete, but he had already worked that out. He heard echoes anytime the man had yelled, so he assumes they’re somewhere big, or at least somewhere with flat walls and smooth concreting. Chained up in an abandoned warehouse perhaps. It was almost a cliche. He tries to think of anything else that might help. But as his mind searches for clues he can’t help it wandering to his team. 

  
  


Had they noticed his absence yet? Were they worrying relentlessly as they always did, or would Hotch have them on a short leash? (He contains a snort of humour at the analogy, seeing as his current position only seems to mimic it).

  
  


He knows Derek will be beside himself with nerves. He always seemed to be when Spencer was placed in harm's way. 

  
  


And after this long - Spencer realises suddenly, he doesn’t know how long he’s been here. With the blindfold over his eyes, the gaps in his memory, he has no idea of how long ago he’s been taken. It feels like hours, but he’s biased considering how long the choking had seemed to stretch on in his mind. He has no concept of how long he’d been out, after the suffocation and after the blitz attack.

  
  


He tugs sharply at the blindfold, desperate to regain his sight so he can have access to a whole new variety of clues, or at the least make a run for it.

  
  


“Drop your fuckin’ hands unless you wanna lose ‘em,” the man’s voice rings out.

Spencer freezes at the harsh voice, fingers stilling on the knots. 

  
  


“I know you can understand me, boy. I won’t ask you again.” His voice is closer now, Spencer can feel his breath ghost over the back of his neck, making him flinch again. 

  
  


He hears the tell-tale jingle of keys again, and the metal against his neck shifts as the man goes to unlock it.

  
  


He thinks about fighting, considers it heavily in fact, but the proximity of the man, the pain in his throat, and his inability to see his surroundings are all good enough deterrents.

  
  


“Smart boy,” his captor praises as Spencer obeys him, waiting for his next instructions, and he feels disgust run down his spine.

  
  


He drops his hands and shoulders, sitting with his back upright against the wall. He keeps his head tilted to listen to the movements of his captor closely, so he isn’t taken by surprise.

  
  


“Hands out,” the man orders. His zip ties have been removed, leaving him less vulnerable.

  
  


Spencer listens, reaching out unsteadily with two hands, jolting when something smooth and cold is pushed into his fingers.

  
  


Water.

  
  


A plastic bottle, thin enough so he can feel the temperature of the cool water within and he almost spills it as he brings it to his mouth in his haste to get it down. 

  
  


Something crashes into his teeth and he makes a small, choked noise in surprise, tilting his head upward in confusion.

  
  


“It’s sealed,” the man says obviously, as though Spencer were stupid.

  
  


Part of him wants to shoot back with a comment, but another part of him is pleased he can hear the seal breaking for safety as he cracks it open with shaky fingers.

  
  


The water is amazingly refreshing as it pours down his throat, and though lingering stress of another blitz attack creeps into his mind, the relief on his raw, parched throat is too phenomenal to give up for precaution.

  
  


When he’s done, the bottle is taken away, and Spencer hates how unaware he is of where his captor is at any moment. He thinks he takes it from the front, but then he feels the man right behind him, running a hand from the side of his face down to his neck.

  
  


“You ready to beg some more for me?” The man asks quietly. His lips must only be _inches_ away from Spencer’s ear.

  
  


Beneath the blindfold, Spencer’s eyes shut as he tries to figure out how he can get out of this. 

  
  


He has two choices: utilise his profiling skills to please the man enough to avoid a session as brutal as the first, or to fight back now, with all the strength he has left.

  
  


He wants to talk, his weapon of choice has always been his words. Gideon’s advice echoes in his mind. The best weapon they can have is a good profile. But Spencer knows _nothing_ about this man, aside from his obsession with having power and control to the point of Spencer begging beneath him like a helpless child.

  
  


A game in which Spencer had indulged him too easily.

  
  


He thinks perhaps his best bet - or, the route that wouldn’t leave him dripping in guilt and self-hatred - will be to fight for his life, to avoid those hands dug in around his throat like before.

  
  


“Get up,” the man directs. Spencer hears his footsteps as he moves forward, as though he expects the fight back he’s going to provide. “Now,” he says sharply.

  
  


Spencer swallows thickly, cringing when the movement draws more pain from his still-raw throat.

  
  


He stands on unsteady legs, using the wall as leverage as he moves to his feet, trying to subtly widen his stance to give himself as much security as he can.

  
  


The man’s breathing picks back up, and he makes a noise Spencer can only assume is in excitement, anticipation. 

  
  


He’s going to choke him for a second time.

  
  


As soon as he feels the man’s hands on his arms again, he shoves them away, his own breath picking up in fright.

  
  


“Get away from me!” He yells loudly, ignoring the echoing and the pain in his throat.

  
  


He tries to remember exactly what Derek had taught him for getting someone heavier than himself to the floor. _Use the higher point of gravity, kid. Kick their legs out from under them_. 

  
  


So, he does this.

  
  


Spencer drops to the floor and throws one leg out, feeling the contact it makes and hearing the satisfying thud of his assailant hitting the ground with a shout of anger.

  
  


He backs up against the wall again, kicking outwards as soon as he hears the scrabbling of the man trying to reach his ankles.

  
  


“You’re gonna be fuckin’ sorry!” He roars, securing a grip around Spencer’s calf muscle and tugging forcefully.

  
  


“Get away! Get off me!” He uses the moment to pick at the corners of his blindfold, pushing the edges up and away from his cheeks.

  
  


He registers the greyish, blurred light before a hand clasps his forehead and shoves him backward until the back of his skull bounces off the concrete with a sickening crack.

  
  


“Lotta trouble for such a pretty boy, little _shit_ ,” the man hisses.

  
  


Spencer can barely think with the agony in his head, bouncing off his skull and filling his mind. But those words are wrong, he has no _right_ to use them.

  
  


“Don’t call me that.” He means for the words to come out forcefully but all he manages is a weak mumble. 

  
  


“Don’t you tell me what to do,” the man spits, yanking him downward from where he’s currently slumped against the wall and floor. His shirt rides up, and the man uses the leverage to pin his wrists to his waist, keeping his own hands pressing down atop Spencer’s as he hooks one leg over Spencer’s side.

  
  


“Don’t - _don’t_!” He writhes, kicking outward and throwing his head to the side, struggling with his arms while the man seats himself completely smothering Spencer’s lower half. “Please - please! I - I won’t, I swear -”

  
  


“Begging for me already?” The man asks, humour in his tone. Spencer chokes on a sob, shaking his head back and forth as the man pins both his hands with one of his own, the other tugging his belt through the loops of his jeans.

  
  


“Other boys fought harder than this, you know. But you’re just _such_ a good boy for me, aren’t you? Pathetic.”

  
  


_Others_? Spencer realises. He goes still, not registering the belt being hooked through it’s buckle as he strains.

  
  


He’s torn. 

  
  


On one hand, the team would have a trail of cases to follow back to him. All they’d have to do was their job.

  
  


On the other, this man is experienced. He knows the limitations of the human body, and judging by how excitable he was during the first session, he clearly only let Spencer pass out from sheer accident. He would know the limit, he would know how far to take things without killing him.

  
  


Humiliation floods his frame at the man’s comment, his face burning bright scarlet beneath the cloth. He feels horrible, no wonder the man has taken a liking to him, he’s placid, a pushover. He’s done everything the man has asked with only weak, minimal push back.

  
  


Forget the rest of his team, _civilians_ had fought harder then he had. He had given in _so easily._ He can almost _see_ the team’s disappointment when they realise how weak he truly is. 

  
  


None of them would ever have taken this time before breaking. JJ and Penelope would’ve lasted days, Derek, Hotch and Emily, weeks even. He’s given up already, placed himself at this man’s mercy, begging as much as he asks, pleasuring him inadvertently in a twisted, sadistic way. 

  
  


He’s pleasing a _psychopath._

  
  


Smooth leather wraps around his throat, tugging him from his spiralling thoughts. It must be the belt the man had freed.

  
  


“What’re you… what’s -”

  
  


“Making sure you’re sorry,” the man grits out.

  
  


The feeling of the belt sliding through it’s loops freezes Spencer with terror, and he shivers when they click at his ear. He’s paralysed as the man tightens his grip around his wrists, squeezing the bones together forcefully.

  
  


“There you go,” the man breathes

  
  


Spencer wants to stay strong, humiliation still burning. But it’s quickly being overpowered by fear and desperation, and despite himself he hears the words falling from his lips

  
  


“Please. I’m sorry….I….please don’t.”

  
  


“You’ve got to learn, pretty boy.”

  
  


Spencer gags as the belt pulls completely taught around his neck, cutting off every inch of oxygen he had access to.

  
  


His hands slip free as the man uses two hands to wrench the belt and he shoves them upwards, scrabbling at the leather digging into the sensitive flesh of his neck.

  
  


The pain is beyond reasonable, he’s never felt anything similar. It’s debilitating and the paroxysm sends him reeling into panic mode. He chokes, gagging on pain and attempting to scream over the whine and whistle of what little air gets halfway down his throat.

  
  


The buckle tears into his skin, leaving something wet behind in its place as it’s wrenched back and forth across the centre of his neck.

  
  


“Learn yet?” The man asks coyly. Spencer ignores the comment, scratching at his arms instead, begging with his fingers frantically. “Ah, not so tough now, huh?”

  
  


He’s started to slip back into that sickly, dark place of confusion when the belt loosens halfway.

  
  


He had been right to assume the man knew of the limitations for someone his size and strength.

  
  


“Start begging,” the man wheezes, voice thick with excitement.

  
  


“Ah - ugh - _augh_ -” he chokes out. His fingers scrabble at the belt, and he’s vaguely aware he’s scratching at his own throat. He can’t get any words out, however hard he tries.

  
  


“ _BEG_!” The man screams, tightening the belt enough to cut off more air, leaving him only the smallest amount.

  
  


“ _Agh! Ughk!_ ” He cries, hot tears brimming in his eyes as the pressure around his throat finally squeezes back until he can no longer breathe.

  
  


Foam rolls from the back of his throat as he heaves, flailing his arms and legs out again, shoving his shoulders between the man and the handle of the belt.

  
  


The man only yanks hard enough that half of his body is lifted from the ground. He shakes violently, sobbing hard now.

  
  


He wonders which of the team will find his body.

  
  


He continues to slip closer and closer to sweet release when the belt loosens and he can suck in air for an unsatisfying second until it tightens again and the process repeats.

  
  


He can’t imagine coping through this any further but he has to, he has no choice. This man - this horrible, psychotic - this man is _making_ him, even though he _can’t_ anymore.

  
  


It goes on for what feels like hours. Every time he thinks he’ll either be choked into oblivion or given the final release of death, the man relents, giving him a moment to gasp weakly on the floor like a ruined fish.

  
  


Only when he’s beyond any movement other than breathing does the belt get tugged all the way off his neck. Only when he can’t find the energy to fight back or scratch at the leather and his own skin does he get a break.

  
  


And throughout, the man on top of him doesn’t stop talking to him. Telling him how pretty his neck looks like this. How good he sounds when he struggles. The only time he’s not speaking, his breathing is heavy as he exerts another bit of force on Spencer’s neck, as he revels in the utter control he has over his life. 

  
  


The belt is tight but his captor’s touch is almost gentle as it strokes just above it. 

  
  


“So pretty. And you want to know the best part?” He’s whispering right in Spencer’s ear and still, he can barely hear it. 

  
  


“These marks right here were made just by you. Remember that, boy. When you fight me, you’re just hurting yourself.”

  
  


He sighs, running a hand along the marks which must marr every inch of Spencer’s throat. “You know, this used to be my dirty little secret, how gorgeous these always were to me,” the man admits.

  
  


Part of Spencer knows he should be compiling everything the man admits to him in order to build a makeshift profile, but he’s so exhausted, too tired from the relentless lack of air that he’s endured.

  
  


“And then I had my boys, and you were all too precious to ignore.”

  
  


Distantly, Spencer knows the past tense means this man doesn’t expect to keep him alive forever. But in this moment, following something so horrific and traumatising as this, a torture nothing like he could _ever_ imagine… Spencer doesn’t know if he minds having the knowledge that he won’t be kept alive in this man’s care for much longer.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr is [@ag-ib](https://ag-ib.tumblr.com/)
> 
> my heart goes <3<3<3 when anyone sends asks


End file.
